Wednesday, November 25, 2015

As I read John Steinbeck’s The Pearl*, I tried to imagine what the pearl in question looked
like physically. I envisioned an enormous white ball sitting luminously in a
room with everyone around it like...

Instead, it
was probably a reasonably sized pearl rendered overly impressive in the small
town of La Paz. The novella tells of a small family living in a tribal
community. The father, a pearl diver, hauls in the Pearl of the World one day
and their life changes forever (Steinbeck, 29). He is not educated; he relies
solely on his instincts and the tradition of his people. Thus, he is not
prepared for this unprecedented find, and many people attempt to manipulate his
newfound fortune. When he initially discovers the pearl, he dreams of a better
future for his wife and his son. By the end of the book, his wishes are
perversely fulfilled.

Steinbeck
is an American guy with American concerns. This novel, published in 1947, and
East of Eden, published in 1952, address the divide between good and evil and focus
on the greed that fuels evil-doers. My biggest takeaway from East of Eden was Steinbeck’s uncanny
ability to describe people and get to the root of who they truly are. Every
mannerism, every piece of clothing, and every speech inflection reveal a
person’s innermost characteristics. Here, even though Steinbeck discusses the
same themes, he adopts a different writing style. His words take on a more
dreamy and lyrical tone.He’s less
descriptive and more straightforward, as if the book is more like a parable
intended to be told in soothing tones to successive generations. In both
novels, he proves his knack for interweaving complex ideas into simpler
storylines. But don’t take him lightly--his words might be easy to read but
they’re packed with profundity.

Similar to East of Eden, The Pearl highlights the stereotypical complementary attributes of men
and women. Women offer their infinite wisdom (duh) and men maintain their stubborn
ways. The couple in the story joins forces in order to retain their dignity in
the face of evil. I giggled a little when Kino, the man, puts his wife’s advice
immediately to rest. “‘Hush,’ he said fiercely. ‘I am a man. Hush.’”
(Steinbeck, 74) Of course, he says this right before shit goes down that would
have been avoided had he listened to his woman.

Steinbeck
has mad skills when it comes to telling a good story. This novel is succinct, entertaining,
and eerily rhythmical in a way that I did not know he was capable of. He continues
to live up to my expectations of an author who knows what he’s talking about
and is able to talk about it creatively. As such, I give The Pearlfour out of five camel humps. It is a foreboding and
humbling reminder that sometimes the greatest treasures can lead to the most
desolate wastes.

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

A few
months ago, I spoke to a patient at my hospital who was an English teacher.
Obviously, I bombarded him with questions about his personal lit preferences as
well as his favorite books to teach. When he mentioned Tom Wolfe, I gave him a
knowing glance like “DUH. Who hasn’t read all of Wolfe’s novels?” I scurried
out, Googled Wolfe for the first time, and proceeded to order The Bonfire of the Vanities so that I
could keep up with the hot high school English class trends. The Electric Acid Kool-Aid Acid Test sounded cooler but I thought
it prudent to switch it up after recent reviews on drug-addled books like Fear and Loathing, Just Kids, My Booky Wook, Naked Lunch, etc.

Wolfe is a
well-established journalist and novelist not afraid to tackle contentious topics—namely
race-relations and the financial current behind them. Specifically, The Bonfire of the Vanities contrasts
affluent, waspy white men with the frustrations of dispossessed black men in
the Bronx. I can’t help but notice that Wolfe is a well-to-do white man
himself. Yet, his words don’t come across as hypocritical or ignorant. He
cycles through three perspectives in the book—all exclusively white males; but
impressively, the unspoken black voice is what resonates. You’re not rooting
for these white men.

The three
men in question are Sherman McCoy (a self-proclaimed “Master of the Universe”
who works on Wall Street and lives in a Park Avenue mansion), Peter Fallow (a
scumbag alcoholic journalist), and Larry Kramer (an assistant district attorney
dissatisfied with his middleclass life). Their lives are interwoven when McCoy
commits a crime, Fallow capitalizes on McCoy’s fall from grace, and Kramer
prosecutes the case. Such a straightforward storyline might not seem worthy of
690 printed pages, but honestly I was hooked every step of the way. Each detail
has a purpose; there is not a single wasted space or worthless description
because every minute plot point proves its relevance eventually. Wolfe retains
reader interest by adding a little bit of new knowledge with each chapter. The
story brilliantly unfolds before our eyes. We don’t learn anything too quickly
or too slowly-- the pace is just right…up until the end.

My biggest
compliment to Wolfe is his ability to portray the spectrum of human emotion.
Throughout the novel, characters are painted by their peers as “good” or “evil”
based on an isolated action. Extenuating circumstances are often not considered
in our evaluation of others. After a while, it doesn’t matter what you did or
who you truly know yourself to be. Your self
becomes how other people perceive you. If someone does something bad, we think
they are bad, and then we ignore evidence to the contrary. This phenomenon leads
us vilify others even when we do the same things as them. Likewise, it prods us
to skew the facts in a given situation to help support our steadfast idea of
someone’s moral character. In highlighting this generalization of “good” people
and “evil” people, Wolfe effectively captures the grey areas that we all know
to be true but don’t readily admit. McCoy’s crime balloons into a disaster and
takes on a moral weight. Wolfe sneakily reminds us that even this
once-womanizing bigot is a human too. We come to see the “pangs of men whose
egos lose their virginity” and although we don’t necessarily grow to like
McCoy, we come to empathize with some of his more brutal collisions with
reality (Wolfe, 669). Ultimately, we’re still looking at McCoy like…

Overall, I
appreciate that Wolfe does not shy from the cold truths of humanity’s desire
for possession, sex, wealth, and status. Nor does he ignore the corruption of the
NYC judicial system or the dogged loyalty of an in-group vs. an out-group. All
of these things come up to some degree in every single character, which is
precisely why the book’s longevity is so necessary. Admittedly though, I was a little let down by the ending. The way it ended was not disagreeable, but
it did feel abrupt. I would have been happier with a longer book and a neater
finish. Thus, I give it 3 out of 5 camel humps. Like many of my
3-humpers, I respect the writing and I am eager to read more of Wolfe’s works.
At the same time, I couldn’t look past the conclusion, which felt like a door
had been slowly closed in my face. Not a slam—but a premature, unwanted
closing. Interestingly, the novel was originally published serially in Rolling Stone magazine. It came out chapter by chapter while in the process of being written (super dope). In this case, I feel like that method probably softened the blow at the end.

Still, I think that the book would be valuable to readers, especially
those involved in the #BlackLivesMatter movement. Wolfe literally asks us if “a
black life [is] worth as much as a white life” in the American court system
(Wolfe, 586). I’m confident that this novel would prove a worthwhile compliment
to a movement that validates black lives in the face of systematic opposition.

*Wolfe, Tom. The Bonfire of the Vanities. New York: Bantam Books, 1987. Print.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Today
marks the start of a new kind of post: the *Hollywood Hardbacks*. The first
Wednesday of every month, I will review a book that has been made into a film,
commenting on the substance of both the writing and the movie. Am I qualified
to give my informed opinion on a major motion picture? Ummm obviously… I took
one course on detectives in film in college. You can have it on good authority
that I am fully prepared to provide you the multilayer review you’ve been
waiting for.

The
first book in my Hollywood Hardbacks series is Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I went to Vegas in August and I’ve
been legitimately terrified of it ever since. Flashbacks of wading in large
pools with hundreds of other assholes listening to loud music and drinking $50
drinks. Woof. Hunter S. Thompson’s infamous book perfectly encapsulates the vileness
of this derelict desert. The setting is pretty straightforward. Thompson, in
real life, roams on a drug-induced binge through Sin City with his
attorney/friend in a search for the “American Dream”. The text draws from a
notebook that Thompson kept during two trips to the city commissioned by
magazines. Thompson found that it wasn’t exactly a stroll down the strip to
complete his reporting duties considering he was on a combination of LSD,
mescaline, ether, amyl nitrite (is this a thing?), coke, marijuana, and alcohol
at all times. I’m honestly impressed that his beer belly physique was capable
of withstanding it all. Hard body.

The
actions and dialogue are purposefully outrageous throughout. Chapter titles
include things like “A terrible experience with extremely dangerous drugs”,
“Paranoid terror and the awful specter of sodomy…a flashing of knives and green
water”, etc. Per usual Thompson flair (see my old review on The Rum Diary), he aggressively plunges into the depths of human despair as
a way to exemplify America’s lusts and consumerist obsessions. He wants to
push the envelope as far as it would go because he felt that his generation’s
counterculture ethos had failed as a guide towards life’s answers or as a coping
mechanism for life’s problems. Specifically, he calls out Timothy Leary’s
psychedelic advocacy, stating that the movement did not satisfy society’s
vicious search for happiness.

Thompson
says we’re all just “humping the American Dream” (lol), but what exactly is
this so-called vision (Thompson, 57)? Americans love a self-made man—someone
who can pull himself up by his bootstraps and make something of himself. To
portray the ridiculousness of that ideal—the endless search for more, more,
more—Thompson took more and more and more drugs and spent more and more and
more money in a city that thrives on excessive expenditure. Like, he took all
of the drugs. As an aside, I believe the British dream involves crumpets in a
pub and being pompously polite.

In
book form, Thompson never fails to titillate. He’s an extremely intelligent and
talented hedonist who will frankly prostrate himself in the pursuit of
journalistic integrity. Hunter S. Thompson: the gonzo journalist sacrifice! He is a good writer, even if the extreme
drug use rubs you the wrong way. Thompson is telling a story and if you judge
him, that’s no skin off his back. At the same time, as entertaining as it was,
I wouldn’t say that it’s brilliant
literature. I had similar feelings towards The Rum Diary—I like it and I like Thompson, but I can only give it 3 out of
5 camel humps because I don’t find it absolutely groundbreaking. And I
don’t think it’s intended to be.

Truthfully,
the book did more for me than the movie. I was impressed that the film was virtually
a verbatim account of Thompson’s text. He practically wrote a screenplay.
Cartoonist Ralph Stedman did a remarkable job illustrating the novel, so I had
high expectations for the film’s visual interpretations and it delivered.
Aesthetically, I enjoyed certain scenes like Thompson losing his shit when he
thinks the people around him are transforming into reptiles or when he takes
too much of the mysterious adenochrome drug.In terms of character portrayal, Johnny Depp and Benicio Del Toro were
spot on. Depp romps around like a certified lunatic and Benicio dons this
menacing drawl that renders his character simultaneously absurd and
believable. Still, some magic was lost in the making of the motion picture. I
think that if you watched the film without the context of the book, it would
seem incomprehensible or at least disorienting; I’m not sure that the movie
could stand alone well. When your storyline centers so exclusively on drugs, I
can imagine it’s difficult to honor the message behind Thompson’s vulgarity
while depicting the vulgarity itself. Sure, you can show some trippy acid
scenes and have it be compelling, but does that really get to the heart of
Thompson’s assertion that our gratuitous ways are unfulfilling like the written
word can? Once again, we have the classic case of *the book is better than the
movie*. So, I give the movie 2 out of 5 camel humps, not because it didn’t
amuse, but because it paled in comparison.

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Lyndsay West

About Me

I’m a 25 year old lover of reading and writing. I was born and raised in Dallas, Texas, and I graduated from the University of Virginia in 2013. Currently, I live in New York City making my writing mark on the world via freelance work. Other interests include religious studies, philosophy, psychology, dancing, and live music.

Follow my twitter: @humpdayhardback

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